Stuck on You
by Outakurebecca
Summary: Sherlock is both inconsiderate and spot-on when it comes to John Watson. Johnlock fluff for Bella.
1. Chapter 1

It had been much too long since the last rain. The storm was crackling over London, making things bloody humid, but it just wouldn't break. When it did, it would surely be a sudden downpour, so every step outside felt like cheating the devil.

John had planned his route home from the clinic ahead of time, making sure to pass by every covered walk possible in case he had to resort to running from safe house to safe house. He could have called a cab, but that would have been, in Sherlock's words, dull.

Except for a heightened sense of danger in an otherwise mundane aspect of his life, his preparation was in vain. Not a drop had fallen by the time he reached the flat. The same could not be said for the kitchen.

"What is it now?" John shouted. He followed the sound of coughing to the center of the smoke cloud that was once their kitchen. He was hyper aware of the stickiness beneath the soles of his shoes and was eternally grateful that he had kept them on.

A few waves of a newspaper dissipated the smoke around the detector, revealing that it had been dismantled. The explosion must have been intentional. John cough-sighed. At least Sherlock was concerned enough not to bother Mrs. Hudson while he was conducting experiments on combustion. Or maybe disabling the alarm was so that she wouldn't bother him.

"You're back, good," Sherlock emerged from the smoke. He was waving a hand in front of his face to clear a breathing path, but was otherwise looking quite content.

"Good? Sherlock, what's happened to our kitchen?!" John said between coughs.

"Nothing irreversible," Sherlock assured him. "Wait until the smoke clears."

"Help me clear it out, then?" John began to reach for a stack of papers to use as fans. He didn't particularly care about how important what was written on them was right now.

Sherlock quickly stepped around the table and grabbed his shoulders, halting his movements. "It'll dissipate soon enough."

John gave him a look. "What do you mean," he asked flatly.

"It's an experiment on the reliability of a smoke screen over time," Sherlock lied.

"Then why don't you have a stopwatch running?"

"Got me," Sherlock dropped his arms. "It's an adhesive experiment."

"An adhesive...?" John looked around for what he could possibly be gluing. Then he looked down.

"I will punch you," he promised Sherlock.

"If you can reach me," Sherlock reminded him. He didn't seem too worried by John's threat. Sure enough, John's shoes were firmly planted to the floor boards.

"Hold on, you were walking on this stuff too," said John, seeing a greenish film across the floor in a square meter around him. "Why aren't you stuck?"

"The set time for the adhesive correlates with the dissipation time of the smoke," Sherlock explained. "As long as I stayed moving, I was in no danger of getting caught."

John grumbled, but decided not to punch him after all. He bent down to untie his shoes, being careful not to set his knee in the stuff. Suddenly he was lying on his side, having been pushed to the ground by Sherlock.

"What are you...?!"

"That's perfect, John," Sherlock complemented him. John heard the click of a phone camera followed by a ruffling of papers. Sherlock sat on his heels next to where John had fallen.

"Look at this, John," he said, holding his mobile and a photo of a crime scene next to each other to be compared. The body of the crime scene was in the same position on his side that John was in the photo. "That's the method of disarming the victims. The shoes of both victims were taken shortly after, most likely to destroy the residue of the adhesive. The nature of it is to dissolve on anything but the rubber that makes up the underside of shoes. Creative, but not untraceable."

John regained some dignity by pushing himself up to an awkward, twisted-leg sitting position. His feet were still trapped to the floor at an uncomfortable angle. It didn't stop his arms from pushing Sherlock over.

"Glad I could help, not how do I get my shoes unstuck?" John asked.

Sherlock got to his feet. "You can't."

"I can't."

"The only way is to burn them off the floor," Sherlock said simply. "The murderer laid out a camouflaged mat with the adhesive on it that they could unbolt from the floor to take the shoes away. They don't separate in a condition to be worn again."

"And you've found a way around that, then?" John said expectantly. He yanked both his feet from his shoes without bothering with the laces.

Sherlock shock his head minutely. The unspoken words on his face were, "was I supposed to?"

The words on John's face had a lot more to do with murder.

"Also," Sherlock began, attempting to move away from the subject quickly.

"Also?" the one word was laced with land mines.

"Also, we have somewhere to be," Sherlock informed him. "Take these," he handed John a pair of old shoes off the table, "we're already late."


	2. Chapter 2

John couldn't help but wonder if this was another deception, another grandiose smoke screen to cover the real object of Sherlock's scheme. He had to assume it was, because the alternative was that this was a date.

The cab pulled up to the opera house. John glanced over to Sherlock on the other side of the back seat, but he was already out of the cab and waiting impatiently for John to do the same. He sighed and followed.

It was a minute to the show time, according to Sherlock. The title o the performance was something John had never heard of before and couldn't hope to pronounce. Sherlock was absolutely bouncing with excitement. Apparently the lead violinist was legendary.

An usher showed them to their seats. He looked annoyed that they had cut it so close, it was against theatre etiquette. Sherlock gave him a fake smile of gratitude to send him on his way.

"Sherlock," John said quietly.

"Hmm?"

"There's only one seat." He was right. Every other spot had already been taken. The sole empty space to be seen in the entire theatre was the third chair from the aisle, wedged between two pairs of couples.

"Problem?" Sherlock questioned. He was already motioning for the two blocking the way to get up so he could get by to claim the seat.

"Yes," John said. His eyebrow was doing the wrinkly thing that it did when John was closing the distance from confused to upset. "Yes, where do I sit? Did you only get one ticket?"

"They were expensive," Sherlock said defensively. "Now hurry or you'll miss the prologue." He patted one knee as an invitation.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. The people around him were staring, waiting for him to make a move. He huffed and stepped past the couple on the end to Sherlock, muttering an apology as he did.

There was an off moment when John found himself standing at Sherlock's armrest. Sherlock caught it, the perceptive git. If he had made up his mind to do it, John thought, he should get on with it. He perched himself on Sherlock's knee.

The curtain opened. The announcer behind it was greeted with applause. "That can't be comfortable," Sherlock's voice was covered by the new noise from everyone except John. He gulped. It really wasn't an ideal position, thanks to Sherlock's boney knees.

John felt an arm wrap around his middle and pull him back to be situated more on Sherlock's lap. "Better?" his new head rest breathed into his shoulder.

"Fractionally," John admitted, eyes glued to the stage. He wasn't really seeing the speaker, his attentions were on the hand that casually hadn't left his waist.

Surprisingly, no one around them seemed to mind their creative seating. Maybe it was because John was fairly short anyway? He wasn't blocking anyone's view.

The first act started with a timpani roll in the dark, like a thunderstorm breaking. Right when the swells of the music made John expect raindrops to defend from the ceiling, the center stage lights flickered on and flutes imitated calming bird calls. The protagonist stepped out and began a light, fast-tempo number that was mostly in another language. John felt Sherlock tap his toe along with the rhythm.

The next scene introduced the love interest on the arm of another man. The set was fantastically done, each aspect of it highlighted with the movements of the dancers.

A scene with lower lighting was meant for the lover's meeting in secret. They danced slowly among the willow trees. Everything swayed with the grace of the violin. John relaxed deeper into expanse of Sherlock's coat behind him. He didn't mind the fingers beside his on the arm rest twitching along with the piece, no doubt playing the notes right with the lead violinist.

The scene ended with a passionate kiss between the secret lovers. John was suddenly hyper aware of the shoulders behind him and the hints of air being exchanged at the base of his neck.

There was an especially long scene change. It the dark, the orchestra did a medley of the lover's theme and the opening tune. The tones were lovely and warm, like a lazy Sunday at home. It reminded him of the steam off of fresh tea, the muted glow of the tele over the top of the morning paper, Sherlock's scent and a hand to hold-

How long had they been holding hands?

It wasn't 'holding hands' in a traditional sense. Just a few overlapping fingers on the arm rest. Sherlock noticed John tense up when he finally looked to the contact. He frowned into John's neck.

The curtain reopened. It was the final scene of the act. The protagonist's love rival announced his engagement to the lovely lady he had secretly met in the willow clearing. It was hard to concentrate on the sung dialogue when Sherlock's hand kept edging away in retreat. John had to think of what to do, or if he should do anything at all.

Warm fingers gripped the digits that were creeping away. A smile whispered on John's neck and there was a slight tightening of pressure on his waist.

All too soon it was time for intermission. Both of them stood jerkily, their legs asleep.

"You were right," John admitted. "That violinist is spectacular."

"You're enjoying it?" Sherlock asked.

John hesitated, trying to assess if the performance was what he was asking about. "Definitely," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

John was surprised at Sherlock's sudden lack of direction. He could have sworn the lobby meant for Intermission was the opposite way they were going.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock chided in response to his unspoken question. "Catching a murderer is much less dull than buying over-priced biscuits."

"All this- This... outing, it's for a case?" John didn't know why he was so disappointed. He liked cases.

"Yes." Sherlock gave him a calculating look.

"Oh," said John. "Right. Let's get on with it, then."

If there was a change in the detective's expression, he walked out of John's sight before it could be seen. John, telling himself repeatedly that he liked cases, followed.

Their excursion brought them to the front row of the theatre. The curtain was drawn; a pity, he would have liked to see the set closer up. Sherlock, however, wasn't interested in the stage. He calmly leapt over the rail onto the roof of the orchestra shell.

John glanced at the ushers stationed to either side. The one on the right had noticed and was speaking into a walkie talkie. As John watched, the call was finished, the walkie replaced in the usher's belt, and brisk steps were bringing him their way.

"John, the game," Sherlock reminded him. His hand was outstretched to beckon him over the rail as well.

"I don't care what's afoot," John told him. He didn't know why he bothered protesting, he was already hefting himself over the rail to join his companion. "I don't want to get kicked out before I've seen the second act."

Sherlock reached out to steady his landing, though there wasn't much need. "We'll see the rest. Otherwise, why would I wait for Intermission?"

"Don't pretend the timing is anything but a coincidence," said John. The two strolled down the side of the convex structure as if it were a regular London walk. The usher overlooking them from the rail was quite peeved. "You worked out ahead of time when the action would be."

"A happy coincidence, then," Sherlock conceded with a grin. John rolled his eyes.

The orchestra pit was comfortably arranged with instruments and their musicians; an idle chatter replacing the earlier score. There was a fair amount of massaging sore lips from the wind players. John was astonished that such a full sound could be produced by such a small number of musicians.

Sherlock gazed longingly at the violin section, but tore his attention from them to pursue their mission. He made his way to the percussion section instead, his resolve growing stronger when the strings were behind him.

One percussionist was busy tuning the timpani. There were only two, the other was repositioning a bass drum.

"Excuse me," he called to the man at the timpani. The percussionist looked up from where he was hunched over the drum, eyes wide as if startled from a trance. A round, silver tool of some sort was still at his mouth, ready to blow a reference note.

"Are you allowed back here?" the man asked. He set his single mallet on the largest timpani and straightened up to address them.

"Not really, no," Sherlock admitted. "Your sister sent me, she wants to let you know that she switched her tickets to tomorrow's performance. And to 'let it wail' on your solo next act." Cue fabricated smile.

"Oh, sure," he said. "Don't know why she'd send you, though. You owe her a favor?"

Sherlock shrugged with an air of 'what could I do?'. "Yeah, does that happen a lot?"

"Tons," the percussionist assured him. "She always has some bloke or another under her spell."

"I'm sure," said Sherlock.

The man smirked knowingly. "But really, how did you-"

"John," Sherlock suddenly interrupted. "Take these." He shoved a pair of open hand cuffs in his general direction, which John caught on instinct.

"What for?" John asked, alarmed.

"Who for," Sherlock corrected. "Her. With the bass drum."

The woman snapped to her feet, but John was quicker. He'd hurdled a marimba and locked her in one side of the cuffs before she could get five paces.

"Why her?" John asked. He knew when to save his questions until after the moment of capture.

"Watch your feet, John," Sherlock pointed to the ground. "Two pairs of shoes in one night would be quite an inconvenience."

"Not more adhesive," he groaned. Sure enough, a layer of it was visible around the drum.

"It's meant for him," Sherlock gestured to the not-hand cuffed percussionist. "She bolted the square of adhesive to the floor before the show. She's in charge of the bass drum for act one, so it starts over there," he pointed to the spot it had been moved from. "In the next act, there's a twenty-four bar solo that he's in charge of; plenty of time for the glue to set. In her pocket is a pistol. The solo ends when a gun goes off on stage, so she would time her shot with that. The exit is at the back here, so she'd be off before the dialogue ended and the pit started to miss the chimes for the next song."

"How did you know?" she snarled.

"The culprit was someone strong, they'd have to be to push over two grown men without falling over themselves. You demonstrated that by moving the drum, you had to lift it, wheel cart and all, over the adhesive patch. You may be leaving tonight, but you didn't want to damage the equipment, even if it was only compromising the rollers.

"Also, the victims were all regulars on an anti-feminist website." He turned to the percussionist with the timpani. "This one here's an editor. You should cut that out. It's bad for your health, as our culprit has kindly demonstrated.

"The other murders all took place within a five minute walk of this location and thirty minutes of the show's end time. Obviously someone involved with production. At first I assumed actor, but a small cast like this would notice any immediate absences. There's surely some kind of tedious tradition after every performance. The pit wouldn't be held to such nonsense." There was a pause, as if Sherlock were waiting for something. After a moment, he looked at John expectantly.

"What?" John snapped to attention from his own thoughts. "Oh, right. Brilliant. That's amazing." He started to drift again. Sherlock looked a little betrayed.

The culprit took advantage of John zoning out to yank the cuffs out of he captor's hand and bolt out the door at the back of the shell.

"Shit," John cursed. He took off after his escaped query with Sherlock on his heels.

The culprit was at an advantage by knowing her way around backstage. She weaved between tuba and bass clarinet cases and wrenched open a side door. John skidded around the threshold, catching the door before I closed behind her. Steps lay ahead. God help him.

The flittering steps of heels echoed down to him. That was a blessing. He took the steps two or three at a time. He gained enough ground to spot his query's high-heeled foot before it disappeared through another door.

The final stretch was before him, the end point marked by a glowing green exit sign. The last straightaway was a catwalk, the curtain visible off to the right. John concentrated on his target and willed his legs in to motion. He was gaining, but she was fast too and already more than halfway down the line. The distance was closing. Ten meters. Seven. Five. Two. It was close, but he wasn't going to make it.

"John!" Sherlock called from the door.

_Great. Now he'll see me being utterly incompetent twice in one date_, John thought in a separate part of his mind than the running part. _Day. I meant day._

The next stride put the culprit almost within his reach. John thrust out his hand, aiming for her right, which had the half cuff fastened to it. To his astonishment, his hand connected with metal and he clamped the open ring to the rail in one motion. A satisfying clang resounded in the upper atmosphere of the theatre and the culprit was jerked to a halt.

"Good work John," Sherlock congratulated him, barely breathing hard. "Let's get back to our seats. I saw the lights flicker for the next act."


	4. Chapter 4

How many times would Sherlock prove it in one night? Sense of direction. Gone.

"Our seats," John insisted, "are not this way."

"Seat, singular, John," Sherlock reminded. His long strides placed him an annoying distance ahead of him in the narrow hall. "We've been upgraded. The opera house owner owes me a favor."

"A favor that you didn't think to use at the beginning of the show?" John asked, ducking under some loose equipment.

"I didn't have it then," Sherlock answered.

"Does that mean- you assume-"

"I'd warrant the salvaged life of his only non-murderous percussionist deserves a favor. He hasn't agreed to it yet, but the chronology of giving and receiving is hardly relevant." Sherlock halted at a heavy, red velvet curtain blocking their path. He drew it aside with a dramatic flourish for John to step through. "Wouldn't want to miss the show."

John gave him a questioning look that vanished when he saw what was on the other side of the threshold. They were lower in altitude than the cat walk where the culprit was caught, and farther back in the auditorium. Directly in front of them was the stage in its entirety, a dead center vantage point.

"We're under the balcony for the second floor of seating," Sherlock explained whilst dragging over a pair of wooden chairs with ratty cushions. "It used to be the director's box before the remodeling."

"Sherlock," said John. "This is amazing. Thank you."

"Don't thank me, this is your favor, too," Sherlock chided him. He motioned for John to sit.

"My favor?" John remained standing.

Sherlock sat, crossed one leg over the other, eyes glued to the stage. "Of corse. If not for you, she would have escaped. You are indispensable, John."

John noted the present tense in the last statement. He took his place in the chair beside Sherlock's. The house lights went down and the overture for the second act began. It revisited tunes from the previous act, gradually folding in lines and harmonies from the pieces to come. The show's most famous song made its first appearance in the score, cuing the curtain to open with the final note.

It really was the perfect place to watch the show. A terrific dance number kicked off the act, even the most background of dancers had immense talent. John could see every aspect of the scene in as much detail as he cared to look for. At the same time, he was terribly distracted. He couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock's fingers were tapping out the rhythm of the piece, if his breathing had slowed since their chase or if he was still as warm as when they'd shared the seat before.

He wanted those arms around his waist again. God, one hit and he was addicted.

Sherlock caught him staring during the scene change. He raised an eyebrow, a hint of almost undetectable worry on his features. John understood with a start. Sherlock thought John didn't like the spot he'd found for them. He did like it, very much so. He just wished he was positioned about four feet to the right, in the lap of a certain someone.

"What did you mean earlier?" Sherlock asked without warning.

John was slightly perplexed. "Mean by what?"

"You were surprised that this was for a case, and then you were disappointed," Sherlock reminded him. He didn't even need to add the next part, the question bit, for John to know what he was asking for.

John refused to bite.

"You like cases," prompted Sherlock.

"So I've been told," John muttered under his breath. Above the theatre, away from the music and the stage lights, a distant rumble of thunder threatened to break.

A spotlight focused on the love interest walking on from stage left. She was singing a ballad, the notes strung out with the pain of indecision. John and Sherlock watched in silence.

The song slowed to an end, but the lights didn't fade or wonder from the songstress. An uncomfortable stillness enveloped the audience. Just as John was about to whisper an 'is this supposed to be happening', a sob cracked through the air. The songstress sank to the ground, her choked back cries breaking free with diminishing restraint.

Amongst the sobs, a new feeling grew. Her hands tightened to fists and she thrust her head up to glare down the audience.

The performance was a work of art, open, raw. John could feel it like a shock wave hitting his chest. He might have actually recoiled when the anger and determination began to radiate from her.

A few lines of dialogue were said, each word being dragged from her throat like an angry tiger from the wild. The soliloquy ended with a defiant shout marking that her choice was made. A black out ensued, leaving the image of the songstress posed with her fist in the air paused in John's eyes. Applause flooded the auditorium. He joined in, looking over at Sherlock to confirm his approval of the act. To his surprise and irritation, Sherlock looked unimpressed.

"Bloody good acting," said John.

Sherlock gave a dismissive wave and sat back farther in his chair. "She made the wrong choice," he said. "This is the point that decides if the scenario will result in a tragedy. She acted on sentiment and everyone will suffer for it."

"She's doing the best she can with what she knows now," John argued. The scene was in another language, so he didn't know what the choice was, exactly, but that wasn't the point. "The actress is portraying her struggle very well, that's all I was saying." He was glad they were alone, otherwise they would have been shushed by the other viewers.

"But John," Sherlock had his full attention on him now. "All the facts she needs to make the right choice have been presented rather obviously throughout the production. There's no excuse."

John couldn't help it. "That's just like you to say that," he snickered.

Sherlock looked at him quizzically for a few moments before joining in on the quiet laughter.


End file.
